Knuckles, pulled tight by the years, burned with the shaman's defiance; his fingers ached him to a grimace as he stretched them open. Digits pointed, he pressed them into the neon glow, dragging his bony fingers across the bioluminescent fungus. "Demon, I have been sent to confront you," he rasped into the echoing cavern.

"My gods and the spirits of the land command me to tip the scales against your unwelcome presence."

Like fireflies, Do Mugu's fingertips danced in the shadows. He smeared the glowing slime across the seasoned creases of his cheeks and into the worry lines of his brow. The shaman was adorning himself with otherworldly warpaint. "I will not hide from you," he explained indifferently, as he rubbed his hands together, spreading the glow across his palms. "See me, so that you may approach me," he bellowed, while pressing glowing prints of his hands onto his chest. He had become a garish beacon in the dark; to disadvantage oneself like that, it was confidence. Moreover, it was fearlessness in the face death. After all, the shaman had been to the Underworld—death held no cards against him.

Gum continued the hunt; his ears were pricked, his narrow eyes widened against the dark, and his nostrils were flared in search of a scent.

Each step bounced the shrunken heads strung around his neck.

Each step jangled the weapons at his waist: his disease jars and his simple axe.

Each step brought the nascent spectre of the three-legged crow to his shoulder.

Each step took him closer to his foe.